


The First of Nine

by kingaofthewoods



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 12 days of mollcroft 2015, Angst, F/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingaofthewoods/pseuds/kingaofthewoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is forced to re-evaluate things he does not wish to consider as Irene Adler discovers something about him that was a secret even from his own mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First of Nine

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Wetislandinthenorthatlantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic/pseuds/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic) in the [12_days_of_mollcroft_2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/12_days_of_mollcroft_2015) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Day 9 -- 9 Ladies Dancing

Although it’s not readily apparent, the reason why Mycroft Holmes goes to his younger brother for help with the Irene Adler case is not entirely because he abhors legwork, and it’s not only because the Queen conveniently – if bizarrely – is fond of John’s ridiculous blog. No, the matter is much more personal.

The day Irene Adler gets in touch with the Buckingham Palace and involves the highest echelons of the British secret service in a power play over kinky pictures is also the day when Mycroft receives a very unpleasant shock. His phone beeps with several arriving messages and he will later think, rather melodramatically, (as is his wont), that each sound was like the thud of a nail being embedded in his coffin. The texts come from a blocked number and contain candid shots of St. Bart’s mousiest pathologist. Molly Hooper checking her phone at a pedestrian crossing, buying a scone, or descending down the Tube stairs. With no additional context, the fact that the pictures were sent to him would mean very little other than prove Irene Adler’s lack of intelligence; for why on earth would Mycroft Holmes care if Adler tailed Molly Hooper of all people? As it is, though, Mycroft has a lot to be concerned about.

The reasons why Mycroft should be worried are as follows: 1) Irene Adler has rightly identified him as her biggest opponent in the power play she is eager to carry out, which means that she is clever and not to be underestimated, 2) she has immediately attacked his most vulnerable weakness, which only goes to show that she is ruthless and that her case is urgent enough that she has no time to prolong the play, and finally 3) the Woman has somehow found out about his..  _tendresse_ , for lack of a better word, for his brother’s pet pathologist and she is not afraid to use it against him.

Tendresse is perhaps too strong a word. A slight inclination. Just barely a wisp of interest. Nothing worth a mention, really. Unless it’s to be revealed (to anyone – his brother, Dr Hooper herself, or, God forbid,  _his parents_ ), then it becomes a matter of national importance (oh, God, the humiliation he would have to endure if this little piece of intel reached Sherlock or, even worse, Mummy!). What is most aggravating, Mycroft has no clue how Irene Adler found out about it, when the “it” in question is nothing but a passing, not entirely unfavourable thought about an otherwise unremarkable young woman. Thinking Dr Hooper marginally more capable than other goldfish in his brother’s vicinity is hardly proof of a sordid love affair. Clearly, Irene Adler is grasping at straws and it will be easy to crush her.

Nonetheless, he decides to be cautious and with a few careful words suggests to the “highest authority in the land” that it would be beneficial to employ the famous Sherlock Holmes in retrieving the accursed photographs. His plan is simple – obviously Adler will be too distracted by Sherlock to bother with her less than desirable joke of a piece of dirt she claims to have on him.

It works like a charm. Sherlock and Adler become mutually distracted, the Woman’s stab at his perceived weakness becomes reduntant, and Mycroft hesitates only very slightly before deleting the pictures on his phone.

*

Ultimately, it’s his own fault.

It’s a classic mistake, projecting his own opinions on others and failing to see the bigger picture. In his defense, it’s always difficult to see clearly what one grasps tightly to one’s chest. An unplanned, entirely inappropriate attachment is a hard pill to swallow for a man who prides himself in being above all emotion.

If forced to trace the roots of his “affliction”, Mycroft would have to go back to their second meeting. The first had been insignificant, the run of the mill intimidation tactic, for which the hapless Dr Hooper fell with the average person’s aplomb. No, it was the second meeting that started it, Mycroft is fairly sure. He very soon discovered that despite her initial meek appearance, Dr Hooper was indeed in possession of a spine. She quickly collaborated with Sherlock and they were sharing the money Mycroft paid her to spy on his brother. When he confronted her about it, in a suitably overblown and terrifying manner, he found that Dr Hooper had forgone the behavior of a trembling rabbit and was instead a professional, fairly self-reassured, if a self-effacing, woman. While he refused to admit that he might have misjudged her, he conceded that there was more to her that met the eye at first glance, and thus his curiosity was sparked.

To be fair, the process was gradual and very slow, all the more difficult to perceive. He only met her a handful of times, always very briefly. They never exchanged more than a couple of sentences, almost always about Sherlock or the work and the morgue. Of course, he knew everything there was to be known about her, her family, her coworkers, her cat, and her browser history (ranging from sickeningly sweet to downright morbid). This didn’t stop him from feeling a small pang of disappointment every time their meetings ended. At first it was easily dismissible. Surely he was allowed a bit of pleasure in conversing with a relatively intelligent human being? It was perfectly normal, nothing to write home about. But soon the iron control he had over himself was left tattered and his mind and heart betrayed him when he was most vulnerable - while asleep.

The dreams began innocuously, a blurry smile, a touch of long silky hair, a feminine hand moving softly up a shirtsleeve. But his subconscious didn't stop there, no, it had the gall of shaming him with unbelievable scenarios. Were they simply sex dreams, he wouldn't have batted an eye. Sex he understood, it was a bodily function, like eating and sleeping, and he'd long ago (as opposed to his brother) learned how to keep his body rested and fed and oiled like a perfectly functioning machine. This thing... This was different. He could have dismissed a sexual attraction to Molly Hooper as perfectly normal (if a little bit bizarre, the woman wasn't that attractive), had it only been that. But it wasn't. His dream eye focused on _feelings_ , on _warmth_ , on...

That was when he made his gravest mistake. Even when faced with undeniable proof, he still refused to entertain the notion that perhaps he was wrong, and that shunning all emotion was as counter-productive as not eating. That perhaps feeling "things" was as necessary as sleep. And in the process of convincing himself that he didn't feel a single romantic thing for Dr Hooper, he failed to take into account the political clout his nonexistent inclination had to those who would not be afraid to exploit it.

And so he underestimated Irene Adler and her penchant to know what other people liked.

*

"The face is sort of, a bit... bashed up. So it might be a bit difficult."

It's Christmas, but the only cheer present in the room is her garish, hideous jumper. Mycroft looks at Dr Hooper over Irene Adler's body, sees the painful infatuation she has for his brother, and for the first time feels uneasy. It's not precisely jealousy. It's more melancholic and insidious, like sadness. With a start, he realizes that he is sad _for_ her. Before, he would have sneered, but now he watches impassively as she uncovers the dead woman, and at the same time desperately tries to cover her own hurt. Sherlock, the dismissive, oblivious bastard that he is, leaves him alone with her. What can he say? What can he do to make this better?

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," he says helplessly.

"Who is she?" she asks. "How did Sherlock recognize her from... not her face?"

A thousand things flash through his mind, but in the end he settles for a grimace. There's really nothing he can say. He leaves, because there's time for a confrontation and time for a strategic retreat. And he has things to do. It's going to be a danger night, after all.

*

"Caring is not an advantage," he tells Sherlock, and it applies just as much to himself as to his brother.

*

"Irene Adler is alive!" John rants over the phone. "What a nasty piece of work, that woman! Can you imagine? She fakes her own death and then has the cheek to reveal herself to _me_ -"

"Calm down, John." Mycroft's mind is working in overdrive, weighting the facts. So, she's not dead then. He should have known. He's been distracted, though. Blast it all to hell.

During the last couple of days, when he wasn't working on Bond Air, his thoughts invariably turned to Molly Hooper. He wasn't accustomed to wanting someone happy. Oh, he knew perfectly well how to provide things people needed, even if they were not wanted. He knew how to force people to do things for their own good. But to make them happy? That was beyond him. He supposed that were he to ask his father about it, he could get some advice, but he shied away from it. To do so would be to abandon all the illusions of grandeur he'd constructed in order to perform his role as the impenetrable Mycroft Holmes, the government official, more English than the Queen.

He didn't analyze why he wanted to make her happy. The knowledge was there, under his skin, but he didn't acknowledge it. What use was there for it? Even if she was inclined similarly towards him, he would never do anything about it. It was an absurd notion.

With the news of Adler's "resurrection", though, all that is put aside in favour of finding the wayward dominatrix. The Woman is good, she has gone deeply underground, and his operatives come back empty handed. He works throughout the night, while other people celebrate the New Year, and doesn't stop even when their revelry stops and they start nursing their hangovers. Additionally, he wastes time trying to smooth things out with the Americans after Sherlock's little stunt. (Although, to be quite honest, it's their own damn fault, who in their right mind would attack Mrs Hudson?)

So he really shouldn't be surprised when Irene Adler decides to strike when he least expects it.

*

He will later wonder if it was supposed to be a diversion. A distraction, to keep him from meddling when she was busy tricking Sherlock into deducing the Bond Air operation for her.

None of that really matters, though.

It's the second day of the year, and he's at the Diogenes Club, sitting in his customary chair, back to the other occupants of the room, fingers of both hands pressed to his lips as if in prayer. He is exhausted, has hardly slept a wink the day before. His mind does not stop working, though, ideas and possible scenarios considered and dismissed at light speed.

His phone flashes silently. It's his assistant.

"Thought you might be interested, sir," she says blandly immediately after he picks up. "I feel it might be related to our case. Molly Hooper is missing."

His heartbeat quickens. Wasn't she at work just yesterday, helping Sherlock x-ray the Woman's phone?

"Her security unit lost her sometime this morning, but the report has been lost in the commotion," his assistant explains, somewhat apologetically. "We are searching, but without results so far."

He hangs up, puts the phone methodically on the little table next to his chair, and folds himself back into his previous position. He feels numb and paralyzed. If he were his brother he would be out of the room in seconds, running, deducing, _acting_. But he is not his brother. Legwork is not his forte. He will not find Dr Hooper with reckless gimmicks or by brandishing a firearm. So he sits there, thinking, while his operatives do the rest. It's what he does best, after all.

Unfortunately, he is robbed of his chance to shine and be the rescuer.

It's not even ten minutes later when there's a commotion outside the silent room. He looks up, bewildered and annoyed, because surely his people should have taken care of whatever nuisance it is before it was heard by all, but then the door opens and Molly Hooper staggers through, her long hair in disarray around her face.

Mycroft is on his feet in a flash.

"Oh!" Dr Hooper cries when she sees him. Her eyes are wide with fear. "Mycroft! P-please, you need to help me - "

She takes a few unsteady steps into the room before stumbling and catching herself on one of the armchairs. The other men are looking at her with astonishment.

"What is this?" one of them demands, but Mycroft does not even have the time to check who it is. He's busy evaluating the situation. The facts are as follows: 1) Molly Hooper has been drugged, 2) she's been most likely drugged by Irene Adler, because her symptoms match Sherlock's from a couple of months ago, 3) she has been deposited at the Diogenes Club for maximum exposure, paraded through the place on her way to the silent room by an inside man, who has already vacated the premises, 4) she is in no imminent danger, 5) as opposed to his reputation, which has now suffered a major blow as everyone who is anyone present at the club has probably rightly deduced his weakness.

"There was a woman - I think she gave me ketamine - " Dr Hooper gasps out, confirming all of his deductions, before collapsing in a heap on the floor.

He kneels beside her, trying to make sure she is unharmed. She relaxes at his touch, knowing she is safe. "Sleep, Molly," he says softly, for lack of anything else to say. A little smile blooms on her lips before her eyes become unfocused and slide shut.

Mycroft casts a grim look around. As expected, the other men in the room are watching the spectacle unashamedly, suits unruffled.

"Is the young lady all right?" Sir Richard asks, forgoing the vow of silence. Perhaps his concern is real, but Mycroft does not care.

"I'm sure she will be fine. I apologize for the disruption," he says. Without really deciding to do it, he scoops the unconscious woman in his arms and stands up with barely a huff. Installing that fitness room at his house has helped considerably with his constitution, and besides, Dr Hooper hardly weighs a thing. It's only when he hears startled gasps that he realizes that he's made another mistake. The Mycroft Holmes they know would never have carried her himself; he would have called someone to do it for him. He feels a blush spreading up his neck. Damn Irene Adler!

"Please don't let the incident interrupt your day," he says stiffly, making for the door. "Good day."

He keeps his head held high as he carries her through the building, ignoring the shocked stares left in his wake. His reputation is dented, but not broken. Perhaps he will be able to use it to his advantage. And if he is a bit disappointed when he finally deposits Dr Hooper into the back of a car, he will take the knowledge to his grave.

*

He takes her to his house outside of London, and it is when he leaves her to rest that he discovers the message hidden in the pocket of her winter jacket.

It's a Christmas card. Nine women in Victorian dresses dance around in a circle on the glossy cover. Inside, printed, are a couple of lines from the famous poem:

 

_On the ninth day of Christmas_

_my true love sent to me:_

_Nine Ladies Dancing_

 

Below, in beautiful penmanship, someone wrote some additional words:

 

_Galatians 5:22-23_

_The first of nine, Mr Holmes? Remember, I know what you like._

 

Mycroft puts the card on the table, pushes a hand through his hair, and finally goes to the bookcase on the other side of the room.

*

Dr Hooper, having woken up, finds him a couple of hours later, standing by the window and looking at the bare trees beyond. She shuffles into the room, stopping at the table.

"Hello," she says quietly, but he doesn't answer, stubbornly keeping his place. "Thank you," she ventures again. "For helping me. I'm sorry for causing a scene."

He finds himself at a loss for words. Irene Adler's message has rankled him so much that even the customary glass of brandy in his hand has not done anything to relax him.

He hears Dr Hooper pick up the card and the Bible that lies beside it on the table. He holds his breath, then forces himself to exhale. What's done is done. He is exposed. He knows what she will read.

 

[Galatians 5:22-23](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Galatians+5%3A22-23)

 

_22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law._

 

The nine fruits of the Holy Spirit, which are what the Nine Ladies Dancing stand for in the Christmas carol. And the first of the nine - his "affliction". He closes his eyes.

"She told me to ask you," Dr Hooper says suddenly. "That woman. She told me to ask you about the first of the nine."

"What do you wish to know?" he manages eventually, trying to sound neutral.

She is silent for a while, then says firmly, "Nothing you don't wish to tell me."

He turns around, surprised. She has put down both the card and the Bible and is looking at him kindly, if fiercely.

"I don't think... I don't think it's the kind of thing that should be told in these kind of circumstances. It should be said by your choice only."

They stare at each other, not saying anything. The elephant in the room is ignored, though both now know that it exists. It's obvious that Dr Hooper is tired and not entirely well after her ordeal, and yet, even after realizing that he is the reason for it, it is she who is giving him comfort just by being kind to him. He should have known. She knows what it's like, to be in his position. She is giving him an out, one that he will gladly take.

"Thank you," he tells her, and she smiles sadly. She looks like she wants to say something more, but the words will never leave her mouth.

His phone beeps from the table.

It's the text that will start the avalanche, but it's also the end of their conversation, vague as it is. A conversation that won't be revisited for many years to come, long years of loss, conspiracy, lies, and change. Perhaps then the time will be on his side, and the choice will be in his hands. And perhaps the outcome of the conversation will be different than it would be now. Who can tell.

He watches as Dr Hooper smiles, nods, and leaves the room. He is certain that she will be safely seen home. The damage has been done, though, and her security has already been tripled. Nonetheless, he can't keep her here forever.

He reaches for his phone.

_From: blocked number_

_Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me._

He sits down at the head of the table and buries his head in his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit of angst to spice up the holiday season!... Please don't kill me. 
> 
> (Actually, the scene at the Diogenes Club has been rattling in my head for years now, but with no outlet. I originally wanted to write a long, involved piece from Mycroft's point of view, with lots of pining on his end to counteract "In the Space..."... But I don't think I have the energy for it. 
> 
> I see the ending to this to be kind of hopeful, with the possibility of something happier down the line. But who can say.)


End file.
